


The Elder's Haircut

by thefirstlightofmorning



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Haircuts, Lap Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefirstlightofmorning/pseuds/thefirstlightofmorning
Summary: Arthur Maxson gets his hair cut once a week.This week, there's a new Scribe doing it, one who produces pleasurable results.
Relationships: Arthur Maxson/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	The Elder's Haircut

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This comes from tess1978’s Maxson haircut prompt on Tumblr. Arthur/Sparrow smut. Repost under my new username.

Arthur’s hair needed cutting. With Knight-Sergeant Dean, the Prydwen’s hairdresser, dead of old age and no one around to replace him, the Elder’s hair was getting long, straggly and unpleasant to deal with. The Brotherhood of Steel as a whole was looking unkempt, something which shamed him to no end, and so he gave orders that the next civilian with barber skills was to be recruited, no matter how unseemly their demands.

Of course it was Paladin Danse who solved the problem. The Vault Dweller he’d brought in, Gealbhan Killian, knew the basics of trimming and tending hair. Not a professional stylist like Dean but one who could keep the Brotherhood looking professional in comparison to the Wastelanders. Arthur promptly handed her Dean’s tools and invested her as a Scribe, telling her to get to work.

In comparison to the last hairdresser, Gealbhan was slow and almost painfully methodical. Preserved by a cryogenic Vault, the pre-War woman had cut her and her husband’s hair as a means of economising in a world where resources were running out at unprecedented rates. Thankfully, Brotherhood doctrine forbade elaborate hairstyles, so she could handle a dozen soldiers a day _and_ teach a couple Initiates with whom no one knew what to do how to trim and clip hair.

By the end of her second month on the Prydwen, the trio got the troops up to the appropriate standard and Arthur was able to assign the two Initiates to the airport. Gealbhan was still the most skilled and therefore assigned to the officers, all of whom were on the Prydwen.

Now, finally, it was his turn to get his hair tended to. Arthur sat down on a metal chair in his private quarters, having removed his uniform and donned a pair of comfortable sweatpants. This was one of the few times he got to luxuriate in the kind of personal care other Elders took for granted. It was a war zone – but if not for this, he would have snapped a long time ago.

“Come in,” he ordered as Gealbhan knocked tentatively on the door. The woman was painfully polite to other members of the Brotherhood, subdued in demeanour and soft-footed, and almost pathetically grateful to have been saved from the Wasteland by Danse.

She closed the door behind her after entering. Two months of proper feeding and hygiene saw the Vault Dweller put some weight on her slender frame and gloss to the reddish-brown hair she wore knotted at the nape of her neck. Patches of vitiligo and wicked scars marred the left side of her face but her features were fine-boned, perhaps even lovely, and her eyes brown and soft as a radstag doe’s. “Elder…?”

At the sound of her low warm voice, Arthur realised there was going to be an unforeseen complication to having Gealbhan as the Prydwen’s barber. Knight-Sergeant Dean had been a wiry old man with a face like dried fruit, brisk and brusque in his duties. The attractive Gealbhan with her slow movements, gentle hands and sweet voice was going to have him aching in arousal before the half-hour was up.

“Don’t worry, Scribe, I just want a haircut from you,” he rasped reassuringly. “Long at the top with a clipper undercut. I take care of my own beard.”

“I can tell,” she muttered.

_Did she just say my beard looks bad?_ Arthur rubbed the thick scruff on his cheeks and sighed. He grew it to look older _and_ hide the scar from that fucking deathclaw. “Trim the beard too. If I don’t like it, it can grow out.”

“Yes, Elder.” Gealbhan’s cheeks flushed red; had she inadvertently spoken aloud?

It took a few minutes to set up the basin of hot water, the astringent shampoo the Scribes concocted to kill lice and fleas, and Dean’s old tools. Dean had always started with cutting his hair before washing it. When Arthur asked him to do otherwise, the Knight-Sergeant had ignored him.

Gealbhan combed out his hair and Arthur bit back a groan of pleasure. Then she dipped a clean rag into the hot water, wrung it out over his head as he tilted it back, and then lathered the sharply scented shampoo through the locks before massaging it into his scalp. The feeling of her hands was divine as she soothed away knots of tension he didn’t even know existed.

Rinsing followed, Gealbhan running the hot water through his hair until it squeaked with cleanliness. She dried him with a warm towel before wrapping it around his shoulders. Arthur had long since cupped his hands over his straining cock. Once Gealbhan was gone, he would need to jerk himself off before attending to any other business.

She didn’t use clippers, instead using the scissors to trim the longer hair at top, then hand-cutting the bits he kept short underneath until it was plush and dense like the pre-War velvet ribbon that was all he had left of his mother. A cutthroat razor tended to the straggly bits around his ears and at the nape of the neck.

Then she got a finer pair of scissors and the razor, stepped around to face him, and looked down at him. “Do you still want your beard trimmed, Elder?”

How could Gealbhan sound so calm and professional when Arthur was raging with arousal?

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, praying to the Creator, the Steel, Atom and any other benevolent divine force she wouldn’t notice his erection.

She soaped up his throat and carefully shaved away the scruff on it, the edge of the razor brushing against the skin like the erotic scraping of teeth. Rinsing away the soap, she set aside the razor and got the scissors. Arthur realised bemusedly she was trimming his beard much like pre-War men did those huge hedges they liked to cultivate with a frown of concentration on her face, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He wanted to catch that coral-hued lip between _his_ teeth, to pull her down into his lap so that she rode him, breasts filling his hands as she moaned his name.

Gealbhan, of course, acted in a completely professional manner. When she was done, she produced a clouded mirror and showed Arthur his face.

He looked neater, the beard trimmed to the same plushness as his undercut. Arthur decided he was going to have her trim his beard as well.

“It is acceptable,” he told her. “This will be added to the weekly haircut.”

Gealbhan nodded and put the mirror away. “Very well, Elder.”

_Arthur,_ he said silently. _Call me Arthur._

Unlike Dean, she finished up with combing and brushing away the loose hairs. The towel was removed from his shoulders and Arthur sighed, knowing that his torment and pleasure was at an end.

Then he heard a bottle being uncorked, the scent of mutfruit reaching his nostrils.

“I have some knowledge of massage too,” Gealbhan explained as she stepped to the back again. “If I may be so presumptive, you need to relax a bit more. The amount of stress you’re under could kill you by forty.”

Maxsons rarely lived for long. Arthur accepted this long ago. He just needed to survive long enough for any putative offspring to be old enough to inherit.

Gealbhan’s oiled fingers were as magical against the tight spots in his neck and shoulders. Arthur gave up trying to swallow his moans of pleasure, instead praying he didn’t come in his pants. How long had it been since he’d been truly relaxed? Not since before he left Lost Hills for the East at least.

The massage was over too soon. Gealbhan cleaned up with brisk efficiency and Arthur watched her through eyes half-lidded with pleasure. He wanted her to stay, to tend to the stiffness between his legs. He wanted her gone before he took advantage of his authority and bent her over the desk with his fingers in her cunt to make her scream his name.

Those radstag-doe eyes skipped over his body and Arthur saw a hint of deeper red in her rosy cheeks. “I should, ah, go,” Gealbhan said huskily. “Same time next week, Elder?”

Arthur hadn’t slept with a lot of women but he knew the signs of genuine physical attraction. Dilated pupils, a flush to the skin, quickened breathing…

_She finds me attractive,_ he thought with a sense of triumph.

“Do you want to go?” he asked, rising to his feet.

The flush deepened. “Elder, I… should go. The Squires need their hair cut and then I need to work on making more shampoo.”

“I asked you a question, Scribe,” he rasped, allowing himself to finally notice the small, soft curves beneath her orange uniform. She was one of the few women who actually looked good in the Brotherhood’s standard uniform.

Something flashed in her eyes. “I’m widowed, not dead,” she retorted tartly. “But I also know that it would be, ah, awkward if we were to… make things less than professional between us.”

“You’ve worked tirelessly these past two months to bring the Brotherhood back up to appropriate standards,” Arthur murmured. “No one doubts your professionalism, Scribe.”

Her eyes flicked down to his erection. “You have a fetish for haircuts then?”

Arthur chuckled darkly. “No. But you’re far lovelier than your predecessor and it has been a while.”

“That’s the first favourable comparison to Knight-Sergeant Dean I’ve gotten,” she observed wryly. “I’m too slow for everyone else.”

“I think you’re fucking perfect,” he told her. “If you want nothing between us, go, and I will see one of the Initiates down at the Airport for the weekly haircut. If you stay-”

His words were cut off as Gealbhan stepped in and kissed him with such skill that he was weak in the knees by the time she ended it to catch a breath.

The Vault Dweller’s hands were sliding down his back, rubbing and kneading at the tense spots, and Arthur cursed softly. If she actually touched his cock, he was going to come and wouldn’t have time to please her before the weekly Proctors’ meeting.

So his hands sought and found the fastenings of her uniform and the knotted hair at the nape of the neck to undo them. His lips traced the vulnerable line of her throat, the coral-hued curve of her lips. His tongue tasted the sweetness of her mouth and plundered it for all it was worth until she moaned with pleasure.

Arthur lifted her out of her uniform after disposing of her bra and underwear. Steel but she was small and soft and rosy compared to him. Not one of those lushly curved pre-War models, more like a fragile porcelain figurine. Still precious though. The slick dripping down her thighs pleased him.

His own sweatpants were lost when she slid them down earlier. His cock rose rampantly, leaking with pre-come. When he sat down on the metal chair and practically dropped Gealbhan onto his lap so that he impaled her, he nearly came from the tight heat. Every hint of discipline went into _not_ coming. Not until she had. He didn’t want jokes about Elder Maxson firing his gun off too soon.

Gealbhan groaned as she adjusted to his cock, shifting until her pubes were rubbing against his. She slid a hand down to her mound as Arthur played with her breasts, rubbing her clit so that she tightened around him until it became almost painful. He made note of that for next time.

The Elder lost the battle when she rolled her hips, coming with a hoarse cry and hot spurt. Gealbhan shuddered around him a few moments later and slumped bonelessly against him, panting.

“Good thing I won’t need my hair trimmed next week,” Arthur rasped. “Just the hair wash and massage.”

Her eyebrows arched. “I’m to take care of all your stiff spots?”

“Next week I will bend you over the desk and make you come with my mouth and fingers alone,” he promised.

They separated, Gealbhan using the last of the water to clean herself up. Arthur saw that her belly was wrinkled and marked with strange white-pink lines. “Where did those scars on your stomach come from?” he asked before he could censor the question.

“Have you never seen stretch marks before?” she asked in some surprise.

“…No.”

Gealbhan shrugged with deliberate casualness. “They happen after a woman carries a child to term.”

“You had a baby?”

“Yes, and he’s gone.” Gealbhan’s tone shut down any further line of questioning.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur reached for the dishrag to clean himself up. “Shall I see you next week?”

Gealbhan paused and nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” He drew her into a passionate kiss before letting her go. “I look forward to it.”


End file.
